I left a bookmark there,

on page number 102.

and few ages hence, 

I resume, from where I left,

after dusting the book page 102.

The pages bleached, print lighter.

The text unchanged, unlike the reader.

After ages, I picked up

from where I left.

But through these ages,

I picked me up

from what people left of me,

When they left.

Who knew a bookmark

was meant to be the one constant,

while everything around changed?

Bookmarks, wallflowers, coffee cups....

What it takes to stay when the world doesn't ?